Game Nineteen
by blingy16
Summary: Tom's woken up to find himself in a game. Can he escape?T to M, appropriate for either.


Awake... awake... I'm awake

These word pounded into Tom's head. Where am I, he thought through the maniac distortions he was recieving from something that he knew was inside his blood. There was some sort of device in his ear, strapped to his head with duct tape, static cracking out of it.

And the darkness... It was pitch black, even though he knew there was something in his system that could mess with him, he still knew there was something in his body that he might be allergic to. It seemed to be numbing him for some reason, but for what purpose he had not guessed at yet.

He tried to move his hands, but couldn't. Frightened, he knew that he was tied to a chair. He also knew there was some sort of metallic cage around his chest, strapped with belts and plastic ties to him. He could taste his blood, and there was something in his back, pulling at his skin.

Maybe I'm dead, he thought. And about damn time. I guess this means I went to hell, he thought darkly. I must get a 'Get out of Pain free' card down here, for awhile at least.

Suddenly, he also knew he was not alone, that he was not dead, and that hell was still far, far away. That rattling breath was not his, the timing was wrong. Then I'm not dead, he repeated to himself, feeling happier.

"Wake up, Thomas," said the device in his ear. A dull, mechanical, distorted voice that mirrored a voice changer echoed throughout the room he was in, or maybe that was just perception.

"'You want to know where you are? I'll tell you why you're here, which is what really matters. You're a journalist. You seem to want to give the public the truth, but the 'truth' you give them is not real, it is all yours. Why is this? Why hurt so many with your words, without sympathy? Unmercifully, I suppose, could describe the condition you have. Let's put your will to survive without a working body to help you in your writing at the office, nothing to write about.

"'Around your upper torso is a cage. Don't even try, you couldn't get out if you tried. It's surgically attatched to your spinal column with weights. You pull it off, and your spine comes with it, so I wouldn't break the strap if I were you. If you survive, you can have the weights surgically removed. You'll have to climb into the cabinets and find a knife, but you'll be stuck inside the door I fit to them'"

He was pissed, now, and he could feel the weights in his back, carefully suspended by some sort of metal wire held taught. And there was a horrible sting in his leg, something felt out of place, even with the painkiller in his system. Suddenly, he knew why this was, just in time for the voice to finish pausing to let it sink in.

"' The key to this cage has been implanted somewhere in your foot. Don't worry, everything works fine, but you need this key if you wish to escape.

"' I suppose I ought to tell you about the saw blades in the doors that are spinning downwards, so you will not escape from suffocation if you wish to keep your arms still intact-- I'm monitoring, and if you play right and get the cage off, I will disable the battery, the doors will swing open, and you are free to go. Let the game begin."'

Tom was out of his stupor now, and was beginning to panic. He struggled against the bindings, and finally got one hand free. He freed the other one as quickly as possible.

The lights flickered on, and his vision returned in a quick flurry of blinking, unaccustomed to the harsh neons that the tube was emmitting from somewhere above his head in a similar fashion to explosions on a battlefield.

He was in a Kitchen, and an ancient kitchen at that, a real toaster oven on the counter across from him. He unbound his ankles quickly, and lifted his pant leg, expecting something bad.

He didn't expect it to be this bad. Stitches had been sewn in everywhere. The key could have been anywhere in his leg, if he didn't know where the source of discomfort was coming primarily from. The problem was finding the real place it was.

He stood up and wobbled unsteadily, not feeling his left left leg much. He supposed he was still in a semi-drug induced haze that would be gone within the hour. If he had an hour.

He made it to the Kitchen table before collapsing to the dirty and gray tile floor in agony, the thing in his leg burning him, infecting him with whatever disease it carried.

"What the hell have you done to me!" he yelled out loud, to no one, through the pain and blood that seemed to be mixing in his leg like the suicide he drank every morning at the office.

But the walkie-talkie had gone dead for good, the raspy voice replaced by a roaring tidal wave of empty static, a shadow of the speech he had been given. White noise loud enough to wake the dead themselves.

He looked up, and noticed the brand new clock, just above the pewter counter, ticking silently to itself digitally.

It was on a timer setting, and it was counting down at five minutes. Tom's body ached, and he was panicking, but that wasn't going to get anyone anywhere. No choice but live.

He grunted to stand up; he had to escape, no matter what, he wanted to live anyways, and that wasn't really too hard.

There was a blinding image of what the aftermath of the saw blades finally meeting in the center would look like. It was a shadow, but it was almost exactly how it would be if it happened. He, trying to get to the cabinet, but stuck by the cage in the doorway. The blades coming down far enough, and--

He looked down at the cage enveloping his body, and then back at the little doorway that the cabinet was concealed in. Sure enough, the blades were silent. He had not noticed them before because of the pain, nor did he want to have them come any closer to his precious body. However, needed to escape.

He stumbled to the counter, and pulled the door open. He slid inside, and grabbed a knife as the door slammed shut and locked in place, leaving him and his claustrophobia to get aquainted.

He looked at the part of his foot that was out of place. There, he thought. The open wound was actually just above his ankle, lodged somewhere near the bone.

He used the knife carefully to cut the stitches apart. He ripped the first one apart, and suddenly felt like he was going to throw up. The pain was trmendous on his part.

He waited a few seconds before realizing he had to get more than one wound on his ankle open, that there was only one true passageway to the center, the rest was padding, distractions.

He cut the second. Then the third. Not there, though, and he didn't expect much from the fourth and fifth holes either.

Pretty soon, he had cut most of the holes open in his ankle, foot nothing more than a puppet, and was losing blood quickly, the wet smell making him nauseous.

There, he thought. He stuck two fingers into the bloody pulp of a leg that remained, and pulled it out, his hope, his way out, and his savior.

He didn't even look at it, he just tried to stick it in the lock. It was too big, and he was losing blood fast, although it was slowing. It wouldn't hurt soon enough.

He pulled it away from the lock and looked at it, realizing the truth about his key to freedom, or at least the one he had searched for.

Of course, a dart with some kind of poision. A bullet, almost, would be a better description of the little bastard.

And he laughed. This was insanity, and he knew where the key was, now that the distraction was gone. He was looking at the pain medication.

He flipped the now disembodied foot around and saw stitches on the ankle, the achilles heel limp, severed. In its place was something in the shape of a key bracing the ankle

So, he thought. That's why it hurt so much to walk. He tossed the doors open and put a hand out in what little space he had left, forgetting the saw blades bearing down on the outside like a bat out of hell.

The diamond-sharpened saw blades finally met mark, kissing his skin, just scraping at first, twangs of pain as he realized in horror his arms were stuck and that the medication had worn off. He still had another minute, but he knew there was no way to escape.

And then it went to black as they swung forward in the final track of their descent, and his left hand seemed to spray blood. He screamed as it cut through the bone and met the floor, stopping. The door swung back down, encasing him inside the wooden tomb.

He'd have plenty of time to get aquainted with his sins before he died, alone and in the dark and forgotten by the outside world.


End file.
